Steele with an E
by startingtothinkaboutgivingup
Summary: Ana, a new call-girl for the E.J. brothel, is one day purchased and brought to live with the mysterious billionaire, Christian Grey. He promises her pleasure and reward if she assents to his every kinky whim, and punishment and denial in her submissive training. But when things take a dangerous turn at the hand of an other, they must come to terms with the emotions beneath the sex.
1. Chapter 1: Bought

Chapter 1: Bought

I step into the shower and let the hot water cascade over my face and down my body. A soft moan escapes my lips. I can already feel the heat working out some of the tension from my back. It's been a long night, and it feels amazing to be getting clean.

"You showering in there or sleeping?" asks a sarcastic voice from behind the shower curtain.

I jump, then smile, recognizing the voice. Cynthia was one of the first girls to befriend me when I started work. "Why? You wanna join?"

She smacks the curtain with her hand, startling me with the loud plastic sound. She laughs. "Just hurry up. We have thirty minutes before the meeting, and there's a line behind you."

God, the meeting. I cast a furtive glance at the single bottle of shampoo in the shower. The scent fills my nose without me even opening the bottle; it's stored in my olfactory memory. All twelve of us girls use the same lavender fragrance, and it follows us everywhere, like a shared genetics.

"Ana," Cynthia urges.

No time for a hairwash tonight. I scrub my hands over my face once more, then rinse under my arms, and call it good enough.

"See if my dress is dry, would you?" Cynthia asks. She steps past me into the still-running shower as I hurry out wrapped in my towel. "I'll be quick," she adds. Sarah is already waiting by the sink, next in line.

"We have three dorms," Sarah grumbles. "Why do we only have two showers?"

"Preaching to the choir," Cynthia calls from the shower.

I slip out the door and down the hall, to the dorm I now share with three other girls, Cynthia, Monique, and Sarah. I quickly blow-dry my hair and then grab Cynthia's mostly-dry blue dress from the makeshift drying rack in the corner.

Cynthia and Monique enter the room as I'm pulling my own dress on. It's bright red with splashes of green in flower-like patterns, knee-length. Not super flattering, but on the upper end of our semi-regulation wardrobe. Each of us owns two dresses, which we rotate as best we can.

"What is this meeting about?" I ask. I have been at the E.J.'s for two weeks now, not nearly as long as the other girls, and still find myself befuddled by strange arrangements like this. Elena, mistress of the establishment, made it seem like some sort of business meeting when she announced it earlier this morning. I learned very early on, however, that nothing very regular happens at E.J.'s, especially when we are required to be "properly groomed and dressed well" at the end of a long shift.

Cynthia sighs heavily, raising my suspicions even more. She yanks her dress over her head, then bends over double to blow-dry her hair. "You'll find out soon enough," she yells over the roar of the blow-drier. "It's just this guy who comes by every once in a while."

The vagueness of her reply make me feel apprehensive for the first time. "What guy?" I ask. Most of the girls are really open about clients, and often share tips or things to avoid.

She sighs again. "This middle-aged guy. He stops by E.J.'s irregularly, sometimes a couple times a month, sometimes we don't see him for six months to a year, right?"

Monique assents silently, shrugging as she applies her lipstick.

"What does he want?" I ask. I cast my eyes around the room. The other three aren't making eye contact with each other. "Is he a client?" This seems the most obvious answer; after all, what else would a middle-aged, likely upper-class be doing at the house of call-girls?

"Like I said, you'll find out soon," Cynthia says. "Time?"

"We should head down," Monique replies.

I follow the other girls downstairs to the main living room. I've only been to this room once before. It was where I had my initial interview with Elena when I arrived. The room is set up to be comfortable, with tapestry-covered walls and several plush armchairs near a fireplace. But it is also very obviously set up to be comfortable to a select few, namely clients. The last time I was here, Elena had me stand in the central floor area while she sat, asking me questions about my experience.

Being back in the space makes my hands sweat and shake, and I have to clamp them around folds of my dress to control the tremors. Flashbacks to when I first arrived threaten to take over. I was so nervous, so unsure.

Normally, we are meant to feel relatively in control of our work, despite acting docile and acquiescent to our clients' wishes. But in this room, we are meant to feel our inferiority to Elena. In the end, it is her who sends us clients, who provides us with a livable wage, and it is she who can throw us back out to the streets at a moment's notice.

We form a single line in the center of the room, facing the two armchairs - only one vacant, the other already occupied by Elena herself. She has a severe face, with prominent cheekbones and piercing eyes. She surveys each of us in turn with her knowing gaze, taking in our appearances, tutting softly.

My throat dries and heart thuds as her gaze sweeps over me. In more ways than one, my life and livelihood are in her hands. She gives me an almost knowing nod as she meets my gaze, however, which only makes my heart hammer more. What does she know? What is this strange meeting with this strange man?

As if in answer to my questions, I hear the door open behind us, and a set of footsteps on the wood floorboards.

"Don't look at him," Cynthia whispers beside me.

I glance sideways at her, asking 'what?' with my eyes, then flick my eyes to the floor as the feet and legs of the stranger come into view.

"Evening, sir. So good to see you again," Elena says, in her silky voice reserved for clients.

"Good group this time, Elena," the stranger says. It was almost, but not quite, a question. He is surveying us, too, no doubt.

"Of course," she replies. "Only my best for you. Do see if one catches your fancy."

So this is a client, I think. But why the private viewing? Usually Elena meets with them one-on-one, asks questions about their preferences and matches us up as she sees fit. We're not usually involved in the 'picking-process.'

I long to look at him, to catch just one glimpse of this strange man's face. His voice was deep and calculating; it made the hair on my arms stand on end.

Slowly, the man starts to make his way down our line. Some girls he seems to pass up immediately, with his footsteps barely pausing, while others he stands viewing for quite a while, touching their faces or asking them brief questions. When he passs by Cynthia without a pause, I am surprised to see her shoulders relax and hear a soft sigh of relief.

Doesn't she want a new client? I furrow my brow in confusion. This man must be fairly wealthy, to afford a private viewing, so what's so bad about him that even a large paycheck can't forgive?

He stops before me. I have to fight every will in my body not to look at him. It doesn't matter what he looks like, or who he is, really; if Elena wants us to pleasure him, if he wants us to, then we must.

A dark hand reaches toward my face, and I start slightly. His fingers roughly grasp my chin and swivel my face from side to side.

"Turn," he says coldly.

My legs take some convincing to move. I turn to the left, the way he indicated with one finger, then turn back to face him. He's dressed in a simple black suit. I got a strange shock from his touch, like my very skin was trying to escape him.

"No," he corrects, "all the way. Let me look at all of you."

My stomach turns. I glance at Elena, my eyes wide with a 'what the fuck?' expression, but she merely nods for me to do it. I feel his eyes on me, on my ass and my boobs, as I complete a turn for him.

"May I?" he asks.

The question stuns me, and my eyes move involuntarily to meet his. He seems like an average man, early thirties, with slicked-back black hair and a slight beard. Not quite the domineering presence that I expected. His eyes are like fire when I look at him, though, burning not with anger but with something close to lust. I get the feeling that he has wanted me, has wanted all of us, to look at him.

"May you what?" I blurt. I realize instantly that I've messed up. Elena looks livid behind him, and Cynthia draws a breath in through her teeth.

"I wasn't talking to _you_ ," he says. He casts a glance at Elena, who again assents.

He grasps my breasts with his hands, making me start again, and he squeezes both of them, as if feeling for impurities. Then, slowly, to my horror, his hand drifts down my body, down between my legs. One finger slowly strokes me at my apex, through my thin dress. I take an unsteady step backwards, but his hand on my shoulder holds me in place. I stifle a startled sound in my throat.

"He'll take her," the man says to Elena.

She smiles. "Excellent. Girls, you may leave now." Her gaze falls on me, seeming to dare me to try and leave with them. If only she knew that I can't move, can't feel my legs, couldn't run if I wanted because of his hold on my shoulder.

His finger continues to circle, finding my clit from my shiver, and pressing. "Perfect," he whispers, only to me.

I relax gratefully when he withdraws and turns to Elena. I breathe out, my mind reeling. What did he mean by 'He'll take her'? Who is 'he' if not this man before me?

I watch their exchange of money with building fear. It is a lot of money, more than I've ever made from all my clients combined. And then it dawns on me: this man is not buying a service for himself. He is a middle man. A servant you send out to do the shopping. And he is not buying a lap dance or night of sex; he is buying me.

"No," I say, horrified. They both glance at me as if remembering that I'm there. My knees are so weak, they're shaking. "No, Elena, you can't."

She steps toward me menacingly. "It's Mistress," she snaps. "And yes, I can. You put yourself in my care when you signed the contract. It's my job to make the best decisions for you; you'll do well." She touches my cheek tenderly, like a mother. Then she slaps me.

I fall to my hands and knees, holding my face where it stings like fire.

"Get up," she says. "Now, you'll go with this man nicely, or you'll go tied."

I shudder, standing. I glance at the man again. His eyes have that strange hunger in them again. "I have to get my things. I have to say goodbye." I want to talk with Cynthia, want to ask her all the questions racing through my head. Who is this buyer? Where are they taking me? What happens to the other girls he takes?

"You won't be needing any of your things, however little you have," she says. "You'll be well taken care of, won't she?"

The man smiles and nods. "Mr. Grey takes very good take of his girls."

I edge toward the door. "Still, I'd like to say goodbye."

"They won't be expecting that," Elena says, "It's easier this way, trust me, Ana. Now, come along."

I grasp the doorknob behind me, and yank it open. I take off running down the hall. All I have in mind is Cynthia, and wanting to see once more.

Two sets of hands catch me at the stairs, grasping my arms, and I fall face-down. My chin bangs on the step, then my forehead. The world spins and goes dark.

* * *

I come to in a dark space, which I soon realize is a car. We're driving fast, but I can't see anything through the darkly-tinted windows. My hands are bound behind my back with handcuffs, and something has been tied over my mouth.

"She's awake," says a new voice. A man in a matching suit sits on my left, and on my right is the man from the meeting room. I realize they must be some sort of bodyguard.

"Don't fight with them," he adds, as I pull at the handcuffs. "It'll only hurt."

I fight with the fabric in my mouth. It's been folded and used like a bit to keep me from talking. I never meant to resist their taking me. I want to tell them that I won't run, that I won't fight. I just want to know where we're going.

Luckily, I don't have to wait long because the car soon slows and pulls along a swath of gravel. The man on my right steps out of the car, and pulls me after him.

The sky's darker than I thought it would be - we must have been driving for at least an hour or so - but we're still in the city, or, a city. A huge tower stands erect before us, nearly thirty floors high.

They pull me in through a side door and into an elevator. The new man keeps his hand on my arm, guiding and steadying me, while the other keeps a surprising distance and doesn't look at me.

"Whe-" I try to speak around the gag. Then I decide to try something else. "Pleesssse," I say. The p sound is easier than the w. The man touching my arm glances at me. "Pleeeeessse," I say again.

"Please what?" he asks the other man, who shrugs.

I incline my chin at him, trying to indicate that he should remove the gag. _I won't make a scene_ , I try to tell him. I just feel so helpless like this.

The elevator comes to a stop on the top floor, and they lead me down a series of hallways. They're relatively nondescript, likely back servant hallways, I realize.

"I think she wants us to remove the gag, Lawrence" the man says.

The first man rolls his eyes at him. "Of course she does, Flint. Now come on, he'll be expecting us in the room."

They lead me to the end of a long hallway and Lawrence stops to unlock a side door. When I step through, the mood immediately shifts and I gasp through the gag.

We've stepped into a room that seems like it's from a different world than the nondescript hallway we left. The lighting is low and muted, and the walls are covered with dark fabric, making it feel like a sort of womb. Comforting and inviting, if it weren't for the racks of what appear to be whips, floggers, and canes. A large bed dominates one end of the huge room, covered in silk red sheets. Several strangely shaped tables stand along the walls, as well as a couple large wardrobes and shelving units. Cuffs, rope, and other bondage items hang from hooks along the far wall.

My face flushes involuntarily as the two men lead me to the center of the room. They've brought me to a sex dungeon. My heart starts to pound. What sort of man has such a place in an apartment building, let alone lets his bodyguards know about it and enter it.

Flint pushes on my shoulder as we come to a stop, indicating that I should kneel on the floor. I still have on my flimsy sandals from E.J.'s. My dress pools around me as I kneel unsteadily. I pull slightly on the handcuffs. Surely they can remove these now that I'm here.

I am facing several elongated stairs leading to a higher level where there's a door to what must be the main entrance and main house. Directly above me is a strange gold metal web-like structure that appears to tilt toward the floor; hooks for cuffs dangle from it. I swallow heavily and drop my chin.

Finally, after seems like 30 minutes, I hear a key in the door and it opens, pooling light over me and my two bodyguards. A figure steps through, closing the door and throwing us all into strange ambient light again. When my eyes re-adjust to the light, the figure - a man - is striding toward us, his steps heavy and authoritative. He wears an expensive-looking black suit with a long silver tie.

He watches me as he approaches, staring into my face and not at my body. He's younger than I expected, probably in his late 20s, with a clean-shaven face and piercing brown eyes.

I glance down.

"You cuffed her?" he asks. His voice is liquid and soft, but stern. He is not pleased.

Lawrence answers. "She made a run for it in the brothel, sir. We didn't want to take any chances."

"And the gag?" I see him bend and then his cool finger under my chin, bringing my gaze up to meet his. He surveys me, his eyes unreadable. Gently, he unties the fabric from the back of my head, and removes the now wet gag from my mouth. He watches me stretch my jaw. "Did she yell or scream for help?" He smiles, like he knows the truth already: that I didn't even think of it.

I hear Lawrence shift his weight beside me. "Well, no," he says. "But we didn't want to take that chance."

"Are you going to make a run for it if I uncuff you?" he asks me.

"No," I say, and I know it's true. However terrified I am to be here, I know I have nowhere else to go. "And I didn't run away earlier; I wanted to see my friend."

"Shush," he says, standing. "Lawrence?" He inclines his head at my wrists, and the man moves immediately to remove the cuffs.

I rub my wrists, already feeling bruises forming. I shouldn't have pulled, like he said. I shift and glance briefly up at the man, this Mr. Grey, before dropping my gaze back to the floor. I've been in a situation like this before, before I came to E.J.'s, and I think I know what's expected of me. Submission.

"Stand up," Mr. Grey says. As I expected, his tone has shifted. The slight hint of tenderness has left, and in its place is an authoritative sternness. Something that suggests that it would be wise not to question him.

I stand uncomfortably, my knees sore from the floor. I keep my gaze down, though I long to see his face, to read his emotions.

"Remove your dress," he orders.

I grasp my dress, but hesitate. I am very aware of the two men standing behind me, no doubt watching. Will they stay? Does he intend to do whatever he wishes with these men as witnesses? My skin prickles with embarrassment.

He seems to sense my dilemma. "Flint, Lawrence," he says, gesturing toward the back door. "Please."

I watch them leave, my body relaxing slightly. At least there won't be an audience, and that makes this whole situation slightly less horrid. I glance up at the man before me, unable to control myself. He's much handsomer than I could have hoped for. Why does that make this better?

"Now," he says, regarding me, "remove your dress."

I lift it over my head in one motion, yanking my hands free of the sleeves and letting it fall to the floor to my left. I stand, naked except for my panties and sandals.

"And your shoes," he says, not breaking eye contact.

I do as he says, dropping first one then the other next to my dress.

"What's your name?" he asks. He begins to circle me, his steps methodic and slow, and my skin prickles.

"Ana," I say.

"Ana what?" he asks from behind me.

"Anastasia Steele, sir, with an e on the end."

I hear a smile in his voice. "Well, Ms. Steele, with an e on the end, I am Christian Grey. And you," he says, coming back around the face me, "are mine now."


	2. Chapter 2: Signed

**Chapter 2: Signed**

"Kneel," he says.

I settle back onto the floor, the boards cold against my bare shins.

"I expect you to respond to my commands," he says. "You will answer with 'Yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir," I whisper. His demeanor has changed from when he first entered. I had let myself hope that he would be different.

"Louder," he commands.

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he coos. "You will find that I am quite an agreeable person, Ana. Do as I ask and you will be rewarded; refuse or act up, and I will punish you. That is our agreement: I will be fair to you and treat you well, in exchange for your submission."

"Yes, sir," I answer. He surveys me with a growing hunger in his eyes, but I can tell he's holding himself back. Mentioning submission made his eyes tighten.

"This is not meant to be abusive," he continues, stunning me.

I cast a glance around the room, my eyes landing on the rack of canes and floggers. The canes range in thickness from a standard walking size to a twig. Several of the floggers are bushy with barbed tips. My body tenses in response.

"Eyes on me," he says. I jolt my eyes back to his. He frowns slightly, then continues. "I will communicate my expectations to you, clearly. We will set some boundaries," he says, "at first, but I _will_ push your limits, Ana."

Is he asking permission? I survey him with wide, confused eyes, my mouth slightly open. He's talking as if I've signed some sort of business agreement with him. Doesn't he know that I was taken here forcefully, with no information?

"Ok," I whisper breathlessly.

His eyes tighten, and I immediately realize my mistake.

"I mean, yes, sir."

"This is new to you," he says, "so I'll allow you some leniency to start with. But I will work to correct your behavior." His eyes drift over my body, slowly, and I can almost feel his hands on me through his gaze, it is so heavy. His gaze drifts down my neck, lingers at my breasts, and slides lower. "You've worked at E.J.'s for two weeks now?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll go over some of your services and limits later. For now, stand," he says. "You have a beautiful body, Ana. You are not to feel ashamed of your nakedness in here, do you understand?"

I stand awkwardly. My face flushes red as if on command. "Yes, sir," I say unsteadily.

"We will conduct most of our relationship in here," he continues, gesturing around the strange womb-like room. "But this lifestyle has many opportunities for expansion."

My eyebrow quirks at the word 'opportunities.' Seriously?

He smiles as if reading my disbelief. "Come," he says. He holds out his hand to me, inviting me forward.

I swallow heavily, and stagger forward. I think briefly about taking his offered hand, but the thought of touching him makes my throat dry up. He changes his gesture in response, extending one arm toward the door he entered through, and lets me pass him.

He brushes his other hand across my bare shoulder, ushering me on. I squirm. His touch sends currents through my skin.

He opens the door to reveal another hallway, though this one mirrors the interior of the womb-like room, with tapestries in varying shades of red on the walls, and sleek floorboards. We pass one door, and head toward a second one at the far facing wall.

He produces a key from his pants' pocket and unlocks the door. "This will be your room," he says softly.

I step through. It's nothing like I imagined: something resembling my shared dorm at E.J.'s, or worse, like a cell with barely a chair. Instead, he's let me into a large, comfortable bedroom, complete with a queen-size bed, wardrobe, and wall-length closet.

"This is your space," he continues. He surveys me from the doorway as I take in my surroundings. "I won't ask you to...do...anything in here," he says, "This is meant as a safe space for you, separate from the Red Room."

I glance at him, and nod. The Red Room - a fitting name. "Yes, sir," I whisper. I wander around the side of the large central bed, and run my fingers over the wardrobe. Opening the top, I'm unsurprised to find it empty. "I didn't bring anything with me, sir," I say, timidly.

"No," he says, in agreement. "I'll send someone out to get some things for you. You'll have a full wardrobe, casual and formal," he says. "And you'll find the bathroom already fully-stocked." He nods his head at a door next to the wardrobe.

Instead is a large bathroom, with a full bathtub, shower, toilet, and large vanity.

"It's late," he says, finally.

I turn, surprised to find him close behind me in the bathroom doorway. He places both hands on my shoulders, and I try hard not to shy away from his touch. Again, electrical murmurs run over my skin.

"I'll leave you alone to rest soon," he continues, "but, unfortunately, we do have one more formality to deal with. Lawrence," he calls.

The bodyguard from before steps into view - he must have slipped in while I was distracted by the room. It makes sense, I suppose, that as a guard or chauffeur or whatever he would always be close by. Still, I glance around me, flushing, I'm naked except for my panties in front of this man, even if he did feel me up in E.J.'s.

The last thought makes my stomach clench.

I glance around the bathroom for a towel, or anything to cover up with, and notice a bathroom hanging behind the door. I put it on without thinking about it. Oh, crap; this is the type of free-thinking that can lead to the punishments he referenced earlier.

Mr. Grey doesn't seem to care about the action, however. He moves away from me, and stands against the opposite wall, with the bed between us. "Lawrence has some papers for you to sign before we begin," he explains. "A non-disclosure agreement and some...incentives...for keeping it, I'm afraid."

I frown. Incentives? I take the offered folder and lay out its contents on the bed. There are forms, like he said, but then there are also other papers - photos, a print-out of conversations. My throat closes up. Oh god, how does he have these?

"How?-What?" I ask loudly.

Mr. Grey avoids my gaze, looking at his hands instead. "I am a wealthy man, Ms. Steele with an e," he says smoothly, "and I have to protect what's mine."

I glance again at the photos, photos of me, and my fists clench around them. They crumple in my grasp. "How do you have these?!" I shout. My heart is pounding.

His gaze turns cold. "Sir," he corrects angrily. "And it's none of your concern."

"But-"

"Only you, Lawrence, and the other involved parties have seen these documents," he says. "I don't know what it is that Lawrence has dug up, and neither I nor anyone else will ever know, unless you break that contract."

I think, somehow, this is supposed to bring me comfort and calm me, but my mind is too busy reeling from the photos. I clench one tighter in my hand, scrunching it into a ball.

"We have more copies," Lawrence says. "If you'd just sign here." He points at a blank line on the NDA and holds out a pen for me.

"What if I don't sign?" I ask.

Something tweaks in Mr. Grey's face, a nerve near his mouth. He continues mono-tonely, "You will be released to live on the street. And you will not be rehired by E.J.'s; it's all arranged with Elena," he adds.

I hesitate. Do I even get to read this document before I sign? I glance at the first line, but it blurs immediately. Am I crying? No. It must be the shock, then.

"Just sign, Ana," he says.

My hand shakes as I sign my name. What else do I have to lose?

Lawrence gathers the papers and leaves immediately, through a second door across the room from the bathroom door.

I watch him leave, then frown. There are three entrances into this room?

"This door leads to the rest of the main house," Mr. Grey says. "You'll be able to see it in a few days. It's quite beautiful, and we have a well-stocked kitchen." He makes a move to follow Lawrence.

"Wait!" I shout. I move rapidly around the bed, toward him. "I'm not allowed to leave?"

"This room? Not for a day or so," he answers. "Once you learn the rules of the house."

"When can I leave the house?" I ask.

"Once you've earned my good favor," he says, a glint in his eye. "Perhaps by this weekend."

"But that's in four days!" Some small part of me starts to panic. There are no windows in this room, there are locks on the doors.

"All in good time," he says. "Now, take a deep breath." He puts his hands on my shoulders again, rubbing his thumbs reassuringly down my arms. "Rest tonight; it's a lot to take in. And you'll have a long night tomorrow."

He winks, and moves through the door. I put my hands against the thick wood frame, wondering if I dare try to follow him. Moments later, there's the tell-tale click of the lock.

* * *

Thank you so much for the wonderful reception you've given to this story. I've so excited to write and post more.

I'll try to update again within the next day or so; with some sexy-stuff to come in the next chapter. ;)


	3. Chapter 3: Fucked

Chapter 3: Fucked

I sleep fitfully and in short 2-hour portions. I think I read once that the brain, in a new space, remains vigilant during sleep for the first 48 hours, a survival instinct leftover from our primitive lives. I am both glad of it, and not glad of it, now. Part of me wishes I could sleep through the night and day and forget where I am, locked in this windowless room, awaiting the call of Mr. Grey. Another part of me is glad of the constant reality check; it makes waking to the situation less and less jarring as the night passes.

It must be around 8 or 9 am when I hear the lock in the door click. A pleasant-looking older woman enters the room. She nods her head at me, then places a tray of food on the small table in the corner of the room.

I sit up, letting the blankets fall around my waist. I slept in the gray bathrobe, since my only dress was left in the Red Room.

"Who are you?" I ask her.

"My name is Mrs. Jones, Ana," she answers. "I'm the housekeeper and cook for Mr. Grey." She lifts the metal lid off a plate of food, and the delicious smell of pancakes and bacon fills my nose. "I brought you some breakfast."

I'm taken back by the gentleness of her tone. I'd assumed everyone who worked for Mr. Grey was as surly and rough as the bodyguards. "Thank you," I whisper.

She smiles at me briefly before continuing on. "Shall I run a bath for you while you eat?" she asks. "It would help calm your nerves."

Understanding dawns: I'm not the first girl she's taken care of. That explains the practiced cordiality and care in her eyes.

"You've done this for the others?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

She pauses halfway to the bathroom. "Yes," she answers. "Mr. Grey wants you to be well looked after."

So I am already a part of the _you_ , the collective of invisible submissives. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end. "What happened to the others then?" I blurt.

Again, she pauses, picking up a towel that fell from the rack. "It's really not my place, Miss. I'll run that bath for you, shall I?" She settles to her task without a second glance at me, hiding under the loud sound of running water.

I sit at the table and rip off a piece of bacon. Good as it smells, my stomach has begun to turn from the conversation. I'm grateful to see a cup of coffee, however, and drink deeply from it.

"I'll leave you to it," Mrs. Jones says, the bath filled. "Let me look at you...mmm...definitely smalls, right?" She surveys me, clicking her tongue. "I'll bring some clothes this afternoon; you can let me know if anything needs to be resized."

"That's really not necessary," I say.

"It's my pleasure, dear, and that's how Mr. Grey likes things to be done."

"But if you let me leave, I could just get my own stuff."

She smiles knowingly. "This really is how Mr. Grey prefers things. All in due course, my dear. I'll be back with your lunch and some shopping around 1." And with that, she disappears out the door, locking it in place.

I sigh in frustration. I give up on eating anything, and finish off the coffee. I glance around, and realize that there's no clock. I laugh out loud. Does he mean to drive me crazy in here? I push away from the table and try the door, though I know it's locked. Then, I try the door to the Red Room, just to see, but it's also locked.

With nothing left to do, I head to the bathroom and settle into the deep, hot bath. It feels amazing, but does nothing to calm my nerves.

"I hate waiting," I say to myself, then giggle. How long has it been? Not even 24 hours, and I'm already losing it, alone in this room. I wash my hair twice, thinking back to last afternoon when I was showering in E.J.'s; already it feels like a lifetime ago.

I sink under the water, leaving just my nose above the waterline, and close my eyes. Would I rather be there than here? At least at E.J.'s I knew what was expected of me, and I knew what and when things would happen: blowjobs, maybe some handcuffs, established clients. Here, I haven't even been given the liberty of a clock.

I stay under the water until it starts getting cold, then dress again in the bathrobe. The bathroom vanity is well-stocked, like he said, with hair and face products. I blowdry and comb my hair, trying to waste as much time as I can.

Mrs. Jones returns shortly later, carrying my lunch tray. She tuts softly at my still-full breakfast tray, but doesn't say anything about it as she leaves. "I'll be bringing your clothing a little later tonight," she says, "Mr. Grey arrived home earlier than expected."

My heart immediately jumps into my throat.

"He's handling some work from home, so you still won't see him until tonight," she soothes me. "I just had to juggle some tasks around. Eat up."

I flop back on the large bed. I can't eat now, especially knowing that he's here in the house already. I close my eyes, remembering how his hand felt on my shoulder last night, like electric currents.

"You can do this," I whisper to myself. "You've done this before, many times. It's a job." I harden my jaw around the word, steeling myself. I've had worse before; all I have to do is disconnect and play the role he wants me to play, and then it's over.

The thought calms me enough that I drift to sleep, but even in my dreams, the question lingers in the back of my head: but for how long?

Mrs. Jones wakes me with dinner. "Mr. Grey would like you to eat dinner, then when you're ready, you can meet him. The door will be unlocked." She smiles encouragingly at me. My skin prickles slightly; how much does this housekeeper know? Why did I have to sign an NDA if even the old lady knows about his kinks?

I glance at the food, knowing full-well that I won't be able to eat any of it. Instead, I sit, trying to calculate how much time it would normally take me to eat, then I head to the door.

It's locked. I pull on the handle, confused. Then I realize; of course. I walk slowly to the door to the Red Room; it opens cleanly and soundlessly.

I'm still wearing the gray bathrobe and my underwear, and I feel slightly ridiculous walking down the fancy hallway. I pause at the door at the end of the hall, unsure. Do I knock? Do I wait for him out here? I glance back down the hall, to my room. Should I just wait in there?

While I dither back and forth, my hand on the door-handle, the door swings inward and I'm met by Mr. Grey and the womb-like light of the Red Room. He's shirtless and wearing a pair of worn jeans low on his hips, barefoot. His eyes shine with that hunger from last night, and my stomach tightens.

"Come in, Ana," he says.

I step through, glancing around. Soft music plays from a stereo in the far corner. Everything seems to still be in its place; there are no handcuffs or canes laid out, prepared, like I had imagined. My shoulders relax slowly.

His hand touches the nape of my neck, brushing my hair to the side. "Let's get this off you," he says. He unties my robe, and peels it back from my shoulders, then throws it into the corner. "Beautiful," he whispers. "Come."

He takes my hand, our palms singeing together with electricity, and leads me to the center of the room. "When I ask you to come here, you will enter and kneel here," he says, indicating the space I knelt last night, beneath the gold bars. "Do it now."

I kneel and place my hands on my thighs.

"Good, but place your arms on your thighs palms up," he says. "Yes, like that. Eyes down."

I drop my gaze to his feet, following them as he moves across the room.

"That's twice now that you've failed to respond, Ana," he says. Oh shit. Something rattles on the rack as he removes it, then he walks up beside me. "What do you say in response to a command?" he asks, and I feel the sting of something slapping the top of my butt.

I gasp and my hand flies back to touch the stinging skin.

He delivers another blow, this one to my wrist. "Hands on your thighs," he commands.

I grimace and do as he says. I glance at what he's holding. A leather rod with a folded piece of leather at one end: a riding crop. He deals me another blow on my ass.

"What do you say?" he asks.

"Yes, sir," I gasp. It doesn't necessarily hurt, but the crop leaves my skin stinging and alive, like a live wire.

"Good," he says. "Eyes down."

"Yes, sir."

"You're learning," he says. "When you come in here, you will braid your hair and wear only what I approve, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I answer, though I want to ask him 'why braided?' and 'approved?'

"Sometimes there will be something I want you to wear - I will let you know with ample time. Otherwise, you will enter naked."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, I want to remind you that this is not an abusive relationship. I will respect your limits, but that's not to say that I won't push them." He circles me as he speaks. My body is keenly aware of where the riding crop is, held close to his leg. "For now, we'll take things slowly. But I do need to know what your boundaries are."

He pauses in front of me, and I see him lift the riding crop toward my face. I flinch. He presses it against my chin and tilts my face back to look at him.

"During your time at E.J.'s, was there anything you didn't want to do, or didn't like to do? Be honest with me," he says.

I swallow slowly, feeling the leather against my face.

"Anything regarding restraints?" he asks.

"No, sir," I answer.

"Pain play?"

I shake my head. "No, sir."

"Anal play?"

"I don't have any experience with that, sir," I answer, my face flushing. Oh god, does he plan to do _that_ to me?

He smiles. "An anal virgin? Splendid." He sees my face and continues, "Don't worry, we'll work up to it. What about anything else?"

I swallow and try to look down. He grips my chin in his hand, and brings my face up to meet his.

"Ana, this is important. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

I take a deep breath. "No breath control or neck restraint," I say, "No choking, sir."

He surveys me for a long second, then relinquishes my chin. "No throat stuff, then," he says. "Now, for safe words. While we get to know each other, we'll set a soft and hard limit word. Yellow, when you're approaching a soft limit. Red for hard limit, got it?"

"Yes, sir," I say. "I've used safe words before."

He sees taken aback, but nods and continues. "Good. Now you can stand."

I stand, keeping my gaze down. When he breathes, his stomach muscles pulls against the top button of his jeans. Just above the waistband, I can see the beginning of a happy trail, down. Despite my fear and anxiety, I have the impulse to reach out and touch the muscles there. I want to trace the lines slanting in from his waist.

"I think we've had enough lessons and discussion for tonight," he says, jolting me from my reverie. He drops the riding crop to the ground and moves toward me. "I'm going to touch you now, Ana. I'm going to learn how your body reacts."

He closes the gap between us, and lifts back hands to my face, tilting my gaze up to meet his. He lets his fingers slide down either side of my neck, then down my shoulders to my breasts. I gasp as his fingers find my nipples. They harden beneath his touch, as he squeezes and feels.

He brings his chin against my cheek, turning his head to his lips can graze my neck. He pinches one nipple with his thumb and forefinger. My knees threaten to buckle. "There it is," he whispers against my throat. I breathe heavily as his fingers work on my breasts, sending little rushes of pleasure down to my center. "I worried last night that you wouldn't respond to my touch," he says, "but there it is. You like that?"

"Yes, sir," I gasp.

"Let's get you on the bed," he whispers. He moves his hands to my shoulders and walks me backward to the large bed. I feel the base against the backs of my legs. He pushes gently on my chest, and I lay back on the silk sheets.

My embarrassment starts to creep back. My body is reacting so wildly to his; I can feel moisture gathering down there, preparing for him.

He follows me onto the bed, leaning over, pulling me further up onto the bed until his whole body is pressed against mine. "You're beautiful," he whispers, kissing between my breasts. His hand trails lower, gliding over my ribs and over my belly-button, toward my apex.

Do I want him to touch me there? My body and mind are torn. Pleasure spreads through my skin, plunging to that part of me, with each of his touches. But I am also afraid of his fingers there, of the symbolic meaning of that gesture. If I part my thighs and allow his fingers to touch me there, am I assenting to everything now and after?

Do I really have a choice, in the end?

"Let's see how you're doing," he whispers. His hand turns, and his fingers slide under the band of my underwear. My hips buck. He drops his head to look into my eyes. His finger slips between my lips and starts to move in and out of me. I moan, exhaling heavily against his mouth. Our lips are so close I can feel his breath on me.

"No-oh," I moan. I shift my legs half-heartedly, trying to lessen the pressure of his thumb on my clit. He merely pushes his finger deeper inside me. "No-oh." I reach out with my hands, life returning to my arms. My fingers scramble in the silk sheets - to cling on, to pull myself free - I don't know why, I just know I need to grip something.

"You're saying that like a yes," he whispers against my lips. He smiles and closes his eyes. He inserts a second finger, and my arms flail again in the sheets. "Do you want me to stop? I will slow down." His fingers inside me slow their assault as he gazes at me.

I come back to earth, loosening my limbs one at a time and coming back to my body. Oh, the sensation. I hadn't felt that in such a long time. I look into his eyes - not dark brown like I'd thought, but closer to a dark grey-blue - and know he'll pause if I need him to. But will he stop this to start something else? Something less pleasurable? Already I feel my body unwinding, but aching for his touch again.

I bite my lip. "No, sir," I say.

He stares at my lips, then into my eyes again. The hunger is there again. Slowly, he smiles. "That's what I like to hear."

And the assault starts again - but no, not assault. It's not violent, but it is forceful. His thumb rubs relentlessly against my clit, circling and circling, while his two fingers move in and out of me in a relentless rhythm. That's what it is: relentless. He is forcing my body to feel, to orgasm, and my body is more than happy to oblige.

As I begin to wind up inside, my body mimics its tightening. My legs stretch out and my toes curl under. My hands grasp for any hold. Our hips - his and mine - together find a rhythm that pushes me over the edge.

And I cum.

"That's it," he hisses. And then his lips are on mine, pressing, and my mouth is opening and I am moaning my orgasm into his mouth, upper lip shaking, my breath a shudder. Hard. I cum.

And I come back down, I realize my hands are gripping his arms, pulling him closer.

"Oh my god," I whisper.

Mr. Grey pushes himself up between my legs, looking down at me. "Take a breath," he says. He slips backward on the bed and stands. "Because now I'm gonna show you how I like to fuck."

That spot between my legs is slack, relaxed and oh so warm and wet. But at his words, I feel myself tighten inside, wanting him again. But what is he going to show me? I push myself onto my elbows, and watch him as he moves across the room to remove a pair of leather handcuffs from the rack.

He goes to the upper corner of the bed, and attaches the clip on one hand-cuff to a ring on the bedpost. Then he does the same with the other. The actual cuff part of the handcuffs reaches almost ⅓ of the way across the mattress, toward the center, but still, if he puts me in them, my arms will be stretched tightly to either side.

"Stand," he says.

I do as he says, though my head still feels light and airy from my orgasm. He raises an eyebrow at me as I stand. I realize too late.

"Bend over," he says. "Chest on the bed."

"Yes, sir," I whisper. I lean over, resting on my forearms, so that my body is in a right angle with my ass in the air. I think I know what's coming.

I can hear his feet pad on the floor, then his hand on my back forcing me down. "On your chest," he says, angry now.

"Yes, sir," I mutter.

"We won't be needing these anymore," he says. He slips my underwear down, and drops them to the ground. "I'm going to spank you five times. I rewarded you with an orgasm and you showed disobedience in response; that's not acceptable." He comes to stand beside me, and he places his hand flat on my left buttcheek, rubbing it slightly.

I feel so humiliated, leaning over like this. And only minutes ago, I was ready to beg for more from him. I sign heavily.

"Did you just sigh at me?" he asks. My stomach drops. "I think that warrants another spank. You're at six now; do you want to keep going?" he asks me.

"No, sir," I whisper.

"What?"

"No, sir," I say.

"You're going to count these." And without any warning, his hand lifts and comes back down in a loud smack.

My body disobeys me and bucks away from pain. I gasp, and grasp two handfuls of the sheets in my fists. I force my hips to return to their original position. "One."

Another. "Two."

Another. "Three."

The fourth and fifth I barely feel because I'm so concentrated on not moving my body away from the blows.

The sixth, he hits me hardest of all, and I have to bite down on the sheets to keep from screaming. I can feel a handprint forming where he spanked me. "Six," I whisper. My face is red and sweaty, and I pant as he pulls me up into an upright position again.

"Are you going to behave now?" he asks.

"Yes, sir," I breathe.

He glances down. "Your ass is going to be nice and red," he says. "Mmm. Beautiful. Now, get back on the bed, Ana."

I scoot to the middle of the bed, and wait for him to handcuff me, but he doesn't. Instead, he switches the music from the slow, almost inaudible piano, to a heavier, fast beat song. As he strolls back to the bed, he un-buttons his jeans and lets them slide down to the floor. He's naked underneath.

"Lay down," he says, climbing onto the bed beside me. He strokes my hair back from my face. "Are you on a contraceptive?" he asks.

"Yes, sir. Everyone at E.J.'s gets injections," I answer.

He nods approvingly. "I'll see to it that we schedule them for you here." He moves over, straddling my hips so his penis rests against my belly. He's hard.

I deliberate for a moment, unsure of what he wants from me, then reach my hand out to touch his member. He grabs my wrists and places them over my head, holding them there.

"You will keep your hands here, do you understand?" he says. "You will hold them here, or I will tie them."

That place inside me tightens. "Yes, sir," I say.

He lets go of my wrists and, when I don't move them, begins to run his hands over my body, pinching my nipples and cupping my breasts. After a few moments, he shifts his hips so his penis slips between my legs, and I can feel him pressed against my clit.

I moan, shifting my wrists on the bed.

He grabs my wrists and presses them back over my head. "Here. I'll tie you next time."

I bite my lip and nod. I try my best to concentrate and keep my arms steady, but he quickly brings me to the brink again. He sucks at my nipples, and massages his penis against my entrance, until my body is close to begging his to enter me. Fuck me, I want to say.

His tongue lathes over my nipple and my body breaks out of my control. My hand leaps to his hair, cupping his head as he works at my breasts with his mouth.

He stills, sighing. "Seems we'll need to train you more than I thought," he says.

"I'm sorry," I mutter.

"I'm sure you are," he says. He takes one of my wrists and buckles the leather cuff into place, pulling me to the right. When he does the same with my left wrist, I'm stretched out and vulnerable.

I pull halfheartedly at the restraints, but they don't give an inch.

He smiles down at me, exposed as I am. He's enjoying me that I'm like this.

"Now I'm going to fuck you, Ana," he says. "And show you what you're in for."

And again, without warning, his mouth is on mine, and I feel his hand down there, lifting his penis into position. For a moment, there's the sensation of stretching, pressing, resistance. And then he flows into me, gently and slowly, but with force. I gasp and he catches it against my mouth. My wrists roll in their cuffs, pulling and trying to grip onto something.

He pounds into me until I'm gasping and gyrating my hips to meet his. One of his hands slides down between us to massage my clit, and once more I'm lost, floating up above my body, begging for more and more.

"Cum for me," he says in my ear.

I release, and I feel him cum along with me, pumping inside my body. I am only vaguely aware of him coming out, uncuffing me, and then his hands are on me, helping me up. My body feels like jello, and I can barely find the strength to stand.

"That's enough for one night," he says. "I'll take you to your room now."

I nod. "Yes, sir," I say through a yawn.

He laughs and helps me into my bathrobe, then leads me to the door to the hallway. The next thing I remember is my head hitting the pillow, and my body giving in to sleep.

* * *

Let me know what you think. I hope the sex scenes work; I'm open to suggestions.

Thank you again for the wonderful responses and follows/favs.


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